


i've got nothing to lose (with you)

by saskiac



Category: SKAM (France)
Genre: Friends to Lovers, M/M, Pining, Yearning, setting is inspired by scottish highlands (kinda), somehow this ended up being a lil sad even tho the aim was HAPPINESS
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-06
Updated: 2020-08-06
Packaged: 2021-03-06 03:34:00
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,738
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25746691
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/saskiac/pseuds/saskiac
Summary: let's see: eliott and le gang on a mini get-away outside of france, inspired (superficially) by the scottish highlands; this is very much a piece centred on eliott's thoughts and feelings, everything else is secondary.or,a pining, friends to lovers au
Relationships: Eliott Demaury/Lucas Lallemant
Comments: 16
Kudos: 83





	i've got nothing to lose (with you)

**Author's Note:**

> i've never written from eliott's pov before so let's see how this goes. i hope u enjoy ✨💖

A house on the river with a white chipped window overlooking green valleys of soft-petaled ivory rose caninas fighting for land with the stone brambles and butter-yellow honeysuckle. Within minutes of their arrival, Eliott moved a rusty looking bottle-green desk directly in front of this window, as though compelled from an outside force. The valley demands his undivided attention at a time where the sky is in a perpetual state of change, transitioning from colour to colour as though indiscriminately picking shades on a colour wheel; specks of fuchsia accidentally blending and bleeding into a rust-orange and a startling red, colours which never turn out quite so captivating on a phone camera. Dusk recalls the beauty of the day, unwinding time and caressing the flowers that dare to grow at higher altitudes. Eliott sits there on what once was a rather plush seat, but now torn down the middle so he can feel the wooden foundations beneath him. Admiring the landscape as he cracks open the spine of a new notebook he uncaps a black pen. It hovers there with possibility for a few minutes until Eliott sighs and recaps it resting his face in his hand staring out the white chipped window.

Footsteps echo above him, muffled voices and slamming doors. He tries to find some inspiration within these movements and sounds but all ideas elude him. It’s been like this for the past two months so when Basile mentioned his parents had a little place a channel away he thought it fateful, fortuitous; a change in scenery from the humid city, away from the lungfuls of pollution to the countryside, a different country; a different language and culture — the endless opportunities for observation. He thought nature would spark something, get the ideas storming, the pen flowing, but he’s an empty machine. No feelings he can scratch out on paper or phone despite being told by everyone he’s ever loved that he feels so much. That he is an endless vacuum of emotions. He even bought a stupid notebook when he’s used to writing down ideas on the notes app on his phone. Maybe an alternative medium would strike an unknown area of his brain filled to bursting with worlds unlike his own. But, he’s being hard on himself, they have only been here a day. He has time.

A knock at the door has him looking over his shoulder before glancing once more out the window.

“Hey.” is all he says.

The door creaks at the hinges as footsteps pad towards him. The tips of fingers against his back almost makes him sigh out loud. It’s not a purposeful touch, it’s the simple act of fingers curling round the frame of his chair accidentally grazing his t-shirt, eliciting painful butterflies in his stomach. Eliott has imagined that touch filled with intention and it’s all he can do not to slip his hand over Lucas’, brush his thumb over the skin and tilt his head back to gaze into those eyes. Eliott wraps his arms around his stomach instead, biting down on his bottom lip.

“Nice view.” Lucas comments.

Now this is someone Eliott could have written many a poetry collection about. Forty poems in verse regaling their childhood mischief. Lucas the leader in all their make-believe games from the moment they ate their last spoonful of cereal until the moon was in full bloom, their parents having to threaten their separation for the rest of the holidays if they didn’t climb down from Lucas’ treehouse. He could lament over Lucas’ hair darkening from a dirty blond to a chestnut brown during which first kisses were had, Eliott broke his elbow falling off a skateboard and Lucas was there, leading him aside and letting him cry — insisting that he didn’t think any less of Eliott whose cheeks were flushed and stained with tears, hands clenched into fists from embarrassment. He had cried numerous times in front of Lucas, but this time had an undercurrent to it, a vulnerability marked by the changing of tides and secrets of the night; seeing Lucas began to evoke new sensations he hadn’t felt since his first kiss — a nervousness that had his hands shaking and his stomach turning. Eliott Demaury could craft twenty-one sonnets about this boy’s hands and the journey of emotions he has encountered over the years since his realisation. Though something about it doesn’t feel right, using pen and paper to express these feelings. The sentiments morph, become corrupted and lose their potency. They become the words at the end of a sentence squished in, overlapping each other, and cut off at the end, no room for them. No place for them in his heart. He believes those words are for Lucas. Someday. And only spoken among them are they meant to touch the world.

Lucas’ fingers poke Eliott’s back as he speaks. “I think everyone’s about to eat; Yann’s cooked some spaghetti.”

Dropping his head back to rest on the chair he finally meets that gaze; dark blue eyes inquiring, strands of brown hair brushing a strong nose, and Eliott responds: “Mmm, sounds good.”

Lucas shakes his head in a _well, are you coming?_ gesture and Eliott only nods.

They continue to look at each other, searching for what Eliott knows not, only that they could both do this for years. Oh, it’s not romantic, though the scene has all the players and the setting to forge a wondrous story of fate and destiny, no such eventuality could Eliott lay claim to when it comes to Lucas. Their staring contests are the makings of legends, they could stare for France at the Olympics. That was Lucas' idea when they were twelve, to enter the Guinness Book of World Records. If only Eliott could telepathically communicate his love through his stare, he would be saved from the mortifying ordeal of laying his soul bear for Lucas to potentially stamp on, to do with what he will. The odds were not in his favour.

The next moment Lucas is grabbing him by the wrists tugging him to his feet. “What were you doing?”

A loud sigh. “Trying to write.”

“Ah.” A voice filled with understanding and sympathy.

“Yes.”

“I have no words of encouragement. Knowing you you’ve watched a hundred videos on how to get inspiration so, for now, let’s just have some fun this weekend,” He mines the breaststroke. “If you manage to write something, if only a three word sentence then great. If you don’t well then I’ll have to reset your brain or something.”

“I guess.” He’s feeling a bit dispirited is all.

“It’s the only plan I’ve got so you can either take it or leave it.”

“I’ll take anything you give me.” It’s out before he can stop it and he has no time to freak the hell out or try and amend this faux pas because that’s when they are summoned.

“FOOD IS READY!” bellows a voice from deeper inside the house. Basile.

“Just in time.” Lucas smiles, dragging Eliott along behind him, like he doesn’t trust him to not sit at that desk, staring out the window for the foreseeable evening to come. Eliott is a dreamer after all, it can’t be helped.

All the knowing brings a small smile to Eliott’s lips, Lucas catches it and a laugh bubbles out of his throat his grip tightening on Eliott’s wrist. He wonders if that’s what love is. Knowing. For some people the learning process is what keeps them in love, and for the others who have already mapped out the insides of each other, know them as intimately as they do their own body. What about them? Is it in the relearning? Rediscovering the constellations of their mind, the breadth of their movement and the deepest, most darkest secrets at their core where the imaginary apple tree blooms from all the seeds they dared to swallow as kids.

“Idiot,” Lucas whispers.

“Yeah, you are.” Eliott quips right back.

Lucas shrugs his shoulders, grinning. “Eat your spaghetti, dumbass.”

Eliott acquiesces and brushes his fingers over Lucas’ skin, where they do nothing but slightly graze, just once.

-

The evening brings them around a crowded table covered in an ugly mauve table cloth, five empty glasses holding it in place, and Eliott feels like it’s all a bit biblical. A cornucopia of sorts with the big spaghetti dish in the centre, napkins laid under cutlery, and — yes, lit candle sticks holding court at either end, illuminating the richness of the tomato sauce and the plates precariously positioned near the edges of the table.

“ELIOTT!” Basile yells the instant Lucas and Eliott enter the kitchen slash dining space.

“He made fucking placement cards.” Arthur chortles, shoving one in Lucas’ face, who grabs at it laughing.

Basile looks indignant, his ears flushing pink. He begins shepherding Yann to begin serving their food, refusing to look at the other boys, and Eliott’s heart pangs in his chest even when he knows that Arthur is only taking the piss, he means nothing by it. He can’t but help feel empathy in any given situation, because he was cursed to feel every fucking emotion in the world. He wishes there was an off switch as quick and easy as turning of the light but for your emotions.

And right on cue, “Baz, I’m joking!” Arthur grabs the place card back from Lucas and when Basile doesn’t respond, he looks around at Yann and Lucas for support, like _did I misstep that badly?_

“I was joking, Baz. Basile. Baz! I’ll do your stupid laundry for the rest of this trip if you open your mouth.”

Baz glares at Arthur while opening his mouth into an o shape.

“What the fuck.” he falls to his knees at Baz’s feet and throws his hands over his heart in mock anguish.

“That’s only two days.”

Relief spreads over Arthur’s face. “You prick. And for the next five days when we’re back home.”

Baz smiles. “Okay.” Just before Arthur wraps his arm around Baz's neck, roughing up his head and causing Basile to shout his head off like an idiot.

Yann and Lucas exchange an amused look as they take their assigned seats at the table. Eliott slides into his seat, taking the proffered orange juice from Baz and sighing quietly as the cool liquid hits the back of his throat. 

Beers are passed around, spaghetti is ladled into ceramic bowls and bellies are satiated. It only takes five minutes before the toasts begin — it’s a slight downgrade from Shakespeare, but Eliott isn’t the biggest fan of his works anyway. These monologues do not bore him to tears, they manage the feat of the opposite; a well of innocence and love and disaster (in the best way) — and Eliott can feel his stomach cramping from the laughter to come. Baz’s excitement is an energy source of its own, powering up each boy in turn and only encouraged more by the alcohol in their veins. He thanks them for coming, his curls bouncing as he hugs each of them and kisses their temples in turn, giving a special wink to Eliott. This prompts Lucas to raise his eyebrows and air kiss Eliott in jest; Yann clutches his heart and narrows his eyes at Lucas in betrayal. But the real jester is Eliott’s heart, making a mockery of him.

-

There is something about the sun glistening on the water, the sparkles of light suggesting an underworld, and the heat and the tender breeze which fosters an exuberant vitality among these boys. Jumping into the rushing water like the rocks within aren’t sharp as nails, as fierce and demanding as deities demanding human blood. Embracing the camaraderie that comes from being complete idiots and living to tell the tale. Defying the ancient gods. Eliott has noticed his regard for his own life has drastically lowered since his acquaintance with Lucas’ school friends; they are wild and high-spirited that when their energies are fused together you have never seen a more brazen display of the human idiocy. Eliott came to the conclusion upon their second meeting that they share a single brain cell between them, no more no less. Their presence demands he shed his insecurities and feelings of inadequacy, that he be instead audacious so sometimes he finds himself retreating and requiring a few moments by himself just so he can keep up, reset and recharge.

Watching the other four attempt to kayak down the river, watching Lucas rub a hand across his throat where a collection of moles stand out against his tan skin has Eliott feeling some type of way. A nostalgia clings to him, the echoes of childhood innocence — running around with paint-stained hands intertwined, breaking the last cookie in half because they couldn't bear the thought of not experiencing every delicious moment of life together with the one person who they could just be with. The one who made them want to be bold. A time before feelings were made complicated and repressive by adult sensibilities and expectations. It’s a nostalgia breeding a melancholy Eliott feels too young to be unraveled by, because he is so very lucky to even be known quite this intimately by a person; it gives rise to a loneliness he feels no right to. He has to look away from Lucas before he gasps out loud because it will be obvious then. And he doesn’t know what he’d do if he was found out, because that’s the scary thing. He already made a mistake yesterday. He cannot give up now. He’s been good so far. Acted the performance of his life. He’s an artist. A master of repression.

But now he is in danger, at the precipice of possibility, because the way Lucas has been looking at him when he thinks Eliott isn’t looking; the tilt of his head, the softening of his brow and that gentle smile without any mischief behind it is simultaneously tearing at Eliott’s heart but also the last image he would want to see before closing his eyes forever. He doesn’t know when exactly it happened but he lost control somewhere along the way; in between the little moments when he lets himself dream, giving the reins of control over to his hapless thoughts filled with impossibilities and infatuation. Beneath the sheets of his bed where he can exist as he is. A multitude of muscles and tissue, blood and bones sinking into the safety of the mattress as his mind is whisked away by a boy sprinkling him in fairy dust and offering him the chance to fly.

It’s catching up to him now, he can feel it rising. A tidal wave promising to consume him, reveal him. His skin is sticky from the sun, it feels too tight. His throat is aching, a sob threatens to betray him. He wants to scratch at his throat to relieve the pressure; he needs to scream until he can no longer produce sound. Until he is an empty vessel incapable of such visceral emotion. He wants to tear out his hair. This loneliness so rapidly evolving into a creature of frustration, of anger. How haven’t they noticed? How can’t they see this volatile species among them? Can’t they feel the very toxicity in the air?

Eliott hits the surface of the lake hard. The initial pain of impact, welcome — a moment of distraction as he is plunged deep into the open arms of the biting cold and opens his jaw to let loose this beast of rage. Furious with himself for being so completely selfish, for having allowed this self-pity to threaten a friendship he would sell his soul to save, to keep forever close to his chest. To that organ known to most animals and at the centre of some of the most tragic and romantic sonnets found in between must-smelling pages and on the rough skin of ageing humans. Though not all the words are without detrimental consequences, Eliott feels like a letter on the verge of changing the entire meaning of a sentence. The power in his hands to rewrite the narrative so he can finally have what he has been waiting for for years. But nothing is without consequences.

Sometimes Eliott thinks about how life is made up of doing things you don’t want to do with small moments of reprieve in and amongst the mess, the stress, finding the will to carry on. The reality is that he doesn’t want to tell Lucas. He really doesn’t. He has contented himself with admiring from afar. Until it gets to be too much. He would rather know him in this way, as a friend, till his last breath than compromise a relationship that has given him more than he deserves, more than he has ever been able to give back. A bond that sets his blood racing, his heart soaring and his body an ardent vivacity of courage and pure, uncorrupted joy. Like a river discovered on a blisteringly hot day, where your fingers have swollen up in the clutch of the silver rings you wear and you want to strip off every piece of clothing clinging to your sweaty skin and it’s that instant relief, that feeling that you could live in the water forever. Your hair soaked and plastered to your neck and the sun that was only seconds ago unforgivably hot is now a blissful pleasure against wet skin. Lucas is solace in a world that too often demands him to not be himself. To just be okay at its call.

Here’s a not quite secret: Lucas knows.

Floating to the surface, his back to the sun, Eliott folds his limbs inwards as the pressure for oxygen begins to sing in his veins. Calling him back to the present to face the world he has made. The first breath is purely human instinctual relief at the intake of a luscious breath of air. The second slows his heart down a fraction. The third is coincides with a minor skip of a heart beat as Elliott shoves wet hair from his watery eyes and sees lean muscled shoulders. Get the fuck together, Eliott. He pushes himself out of the water and it’s as though he wasn’t listening before, as though his thoughts blocked the functionality of his ears, because as soon as he leaves the water laughter pierces the air, cut short when Eliott flops down beside Yann.

Yann immediately reveals that Lucas has an idea, and Eliott’s groan is an automatic response, he throws an arm over his eyes, closing them against the sun.

“So Lucas was thinking—”

“—I was thinking we should race down that hill—”

“—You mean mountain.”

Lucas scoffs. “It’s hardly a _mountain_.”

“No thanks, I’m cool. You guys can though. I’ll chill here.”

Eliott’s bent knee collapses to the floor as Lucas kicks at his leg. “What?” he asks, annoyed.

“I’ll do it if you do it.” 

“Ha, yeah right.” 

“I promise. Eliott, I swear I’ll do it.” 

“And where has trusting your word ever got me, Lallemant?” 

Lucas rolls his eyes. “Pinky promise?” 

Eliott laughs. 

“Spit shake.” 

That’s basically kissing is Eliott’s first thought. “No thanks.” 

“You’re acting like you don’t trust me.” 

“I literally do not trust you.”

At Lucas’ hurt expression Eliott feels more defensive than guilty like he normally would. He’s tired of this day. He wants to sleep for twelve hours straight.

“It’s a fucking mountain. I don’t want to die.” he gestures emphatically to the mountain. Arguably, the distance is not far but Eliott’s not the biggest fan of running at such a steep, vertical angle. Knowing him, he would twist his ankle and break an arm versus the rather athletic Lucas and Yann, co-captains of a baseball team. “I have a headache.” he adds, not looking at either boys’ face.

Closing his eyes once more and longing for the privacy of the river; the secrets beneath the rolling surface of the azure water, conversation becomes muffled as Eliott finds his stasis. Lolled by the constant rush of water, Eliott is ignorant to his environment, though not frightened when his vision turns from a burning blood-red to a muted orange. He blinks an eye open and Lucas is there, a slight furrow in his brow, his lips a firm line.

He whispers, “You okay? We’re gonna be over there.”

Eliott nods.

“Okay.” Lucas brushes one hand through the hair framing Eliott’s hair, his long, callused fingers moving carefully. He finishes with a pinch of Eliott’s chin and sprints away, Eliott assumes, after Yann.

What if he let it all go? What if he let himself look at Lucas and touch his hand? Could he do it without having to justify it to himself and the world?

-

Lucas’ bedroom sits two doors down from Eliott’s at the end of the hall. It has a white door with blue accents like every other door in this house and it’s slightly open. It’s a sign Eliott decides because he needs one to do this. He needs every last ounce of courage available to him because everything is about to change. Whether it is small or life-shaking, and he doesn’t have to do this. But he does.

One step. He watches his foot take the next and next and three more until he is two steps away from being seen. That is if Lucas is on his bed, but if he’s only the other side of the room, then Eliott has more time to second guess this endeavour. He doesn’t know which to wish for. He is one step away and no Lucas. A breath out, his stomach clenches. _Okay_.

Walking into the room with all the confidence he doesn’t possess, Eliott bounces onto Lucas’ bed and leans up against the wall, and there the other boy is reading a book for school in a wooden rocking chair by a dusty looking mirror, half concealed by a brown throw. Meanwhile Eliott is being sucked in by the loveliest mattress his butt has ever had the pleasure to rest on. The duvet smells like Lucas. 

“Fuck, this bed is so much bigger than mine.” he announces, shuffling down onto his back.

Lucas wiggles his eyebrows. “Lots of star fishing has happened there.”

“I bet.”

He has made it this far. Maybe with Lucas engrossed in his book it will be easier. The first part anyway, because he has no doubt Lucas will either try to avoid eye contact all together or shut the conversation down within seconds because he doesn’t like Eliott in that way.

“I like you.” Eliott clarifies. His throat tightening. He can’t believe he said it, he’s not known for being the most loquacious about his feelings. Despite being sensitive and greatly empathic, this does not extend to how he treats himself. Vocalising his turmoil is new and uncomfortable; he doesn’t feel like he can breath better, there’s not relief in it. He counts to ten and tilts his head up to examine Lucas who is staring intently at his book, his face a mirror of shock and fear. But Eliott’s not exactly sure if it is shock at his love or the act of the revelation itself.

Lucas clears his throat. “I don’t want things to change,” closing his book around his finger to hold his page, he licks his lips as his shoulders curl in slightly. Eliott is a hurricane, wrecking devastation and warning signs are blaring in his head to _get out, get out, get out!_ “I do know that I like you.” And then all is quiet in his mind as he lowers his head back to the mattress. He doesn’t know what to do with his hands; folding them behind his head then across his stomach, the puzzle pieces not fitting. His stomach is clenched in preparation for a fall, for someone to jump out with a camera and say he’s been punked, for Lucas to bust out laughing and divulge his prank to the boys. He was expecting rejection so this is new and he can’t quite believe it. This isn’t going according to plan. Lucas isn’t supposed to say _I like you_. What the hell is happening.

Sitting up, Eliott can feel his face tightening and he’s confused as he gets to his feet, drifting towards Lucas’ bedroom door like a lone breeze. The light catches Lucas’ hair, lightening the tips to a golden brown and Eliott’s heart is in his throat, his jaw clenching he needs out of this space. He’s almost out the door but Lucas has somehow slipped in front of him, framed in the doorway and he fills the frustration building up.

“Hey.” Lucas’ voice is soft as he searches Eliott’s face, taking in his fists at his sides and the pronounced jaw line. He reaches up and rubs gentle circles just beneath Eliott’s ear; taking one of his fists in his own hands, he runs a callused finger over knuckles and under to where fingers are curled inwards. Lucas is not met with resistance because Eliott’s fingers unfurl and Lucas is slotting his own in between and Eliott is losing his breath, it’s been stolen, he can’t get it back and his eyes are near to welling up.

They drift towards the bed, Eliott floating, not registering any physical movements beyond their intertwined fingers, the soft pressure of Lucas grip on his own hand is a masterpiece. He is sitting down, in the middle of the bed and Lucas is sitting on his knees on top of the blankets, their hands hang in the space between them.

“How about this,” Lucas says, decisively, his gaze drifting from their hands. He shifts forward moving closer to Eliott, “We try. We don’t force anything. If it doesn’t feel right we stop, because I don’t want to lose you as a friend, Eliott. Fuck, that’s what terrifies me most. But I think we would both regret it if we didn’t try and I really fucking want to. Eliott?”

Right, he needs to speak. Say something. He shifts closer to Lucas, not quite believing what he’s hearing. Unlacing their hands he brushes his free hand through Lucas’ hair before pulling him in for a hug. Breathing in his scent which is tangy from the citrusy soap they’ve all been using, but the underlying cedar-wood, jasmine and toothpaste is there and it feels like safety. “You like me, too?” his voice is low.

Lucas’ laughter vibrates against his chest bringing a smile to Eliott’s lips, he pulls back and pecks Lucas’ forehead before returning his face to his neck and Lucas tightens his hold. And he swears he hears him say so much. Eliott knows he is in love, but this is enough for now. He would broach that later on. This he would trade for anything. The feel of Lucas in his arms, their chests pressed against each other, the feeling of Lucas’ plush lips against his neck and the warm feeling in his stomach. He is in elated shock and nothing can touch them, they have fallen into their pocket of space and time, they are safe.

“How are you this warm?” Eliott wonders aloud, pulling back from the hug, his eyes darting to Lucas’ lips. “Can I kiss you, Lallemant?”

Lucas reclaims the space between them, securing his ankles behind Eliott’s back, he quirks an eyebrow and presses his lips together. Eliott is bewitched by those lips. What secrets and answers do they hold? Are they as soft as they appear?

“Okay.”

And Lucas is leaning forward, his eyes flickering from Eliott’s eyes to his lips and back again, he brushes his nose up the side of Eliott’s and back down again. His eyes lock on Eliott’s blue fading into a lighter blue-grey. Eliott can’t help but brush the tips of their noses, then he slants his mouth upwards, tipping his chin and this is new, because whenever he imagined them kissing, him kissing Lucas, he was always leaning downwards because of their heights, but here Lucas is sitting in his lap with this lips hovering just millimetres above his own and it’s everything he has ever wanted. The second brush of their lips is lost completely to the thunderous sensations of the first and it’s vertigo from here on out.

**Author's Note:**

> thank you so much for reading! 💛💛  
> (i miss elu so much)  
> pls leave a comment if you feel so inclined - i'd really appreciate it!!


End file.
